Mary Herbert - Lightning's Daughter

“So be it. Lady Gabria’s sentence begins at moonrise tonight.

She may return to the clan in six months, marked by the rise of the full moon.” He turned on his heel and strode to the chieftain’s quarters in the back of the hall. The tapestry fell closed behind him, signaling the end of the getyne .

Thalar snorted in disgust and stamped to the entrance. As the guards pulled the doors open for him a cold gust of wind swirled into the hall. The chilly air seemed to rouse the crowd from their astonishment. In ones and twos they averted their eyes from Gabria and left the hall until only the sorceress and Cantrell remained.

The young woman took a deep breath and stepped away from the fire. She sank down on the dais steps. “We have been back in the treld but ten days and already they are getting rid of me,” she said with bitter sadness.

The old bard did not answer her immediately. Instead he gently strummed the strings of his harp. Cantrell had lost his sight the previous summer, when Lord Medb had slashed his face in a fit of rage during an ill-fated clan gathering. The bard had fled the sorcerer’s camp and found sanctuary with the Khulinin. Since then, Cantrell’s ancient harp had rarely left his hands. His eyes were gone, but the music of his harp and his songs had kept his life full.

He played his instrument now, letting the notes flow into the new ballad he was creating about Gabria. The clans loved heroic tales, and it would not hurt to remind them of the courage in Gabria’s deeds. For a while he simply played to her, knowing the music would say more than his voice. He brought the tune to an end with a strong flourish and listened as the notes passed into silence.

Cantrell stood and laid his harp carefully by his stool. “I am pleased you will not be far away. We will be waiting for you to come home.”

“Home,” Gabria repeated sadly. “I am a sorceress. The only home I had is now a ruin. I doubt I’ll ever be allowed to find another.” She climbed to her feet and looked miserably at the door through which Athlone had disappeared. She hadn’t even been given a chance to say good-bye to him.

Cantrell felt for her arm. He pulled her close and held her tight. “You will survive this, child. And more to come. Be ready.”

Gabria smiled into his blind face. “Is this one of your prophecies, Bard?”

“No. It is something I feel—like the coming of night. It will be moonrise soon. You had better go.”

Gabria picked up her golden clan cloak from the steps, threw it around her shoulders, and walked toward the big double doors. Behind her, the bard resumed his seat and ran his fingers along his harp. The soft music followed her toward the doors. Just as she was about to leave, a familiar voice called to her. Gabria turned and saw Athlone hurrying to her with a bundle in his hands. The emotions of the past few hours swelled within her, and she ran to meet him before the fears and angers could tear apart her flimsy control. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck.

The chieftain hugged her fiercely. “I could not let you go without a word.”

As he held her is his arms, she looked up and said forlornly, “Six months is a long time to be away.” She dropped her eyes again. “I have never been alone for so long.”

“I don’t like it either,” Athlone replied, “but the law must be upheld or we will never have peace.” He looked down into her deep green eyes. “Besides, you will not be totally alone. Nara will be with you, and while I cannot visit, I’ll watch and guard you as much as I can.”

His face suddenly lit with laughter and he added, “The goddess must look after you, too. I have already paid the bride price. Will you marry me when you come back?”

She looked away. “You may change your mind in six months.”

Athlone cupped her chin in his hand and gently turned her head to look at him. “I’d sooner change my clan. I will be waiting for you. In the meantime, take this,” He thrust a bundle in her hands, then kissed her deeply. “And take my love.” A final hug and he was gone, striding back to his quarters.

The sorceress watched him go, her heart heavy. Finally she stepped past the entrance and looked down through the deepening twilight at the wintering camp of the Khulinin. The chieftain’s hall was built into the side of a large, treeless hill overlooking a broad valley in the foothills of the Darkhorn Mountains. To the north, the Goldrine River tumbled out of a deep canyon and spread out to water the fertile valley. Here, in this natural shelter, the Khulinin spent every winter, caring for their herds and gradually losing their nomadic habits.

From the promontory where she stood, Gabria could see the entire encampment of black felt tents, corrals, and scattered permanent buildings that dotted the banks of the river. Beyond the Goldrine, large herds of horses and livestock grazed on the lush grass of the foothills. The Khulinin were a large, wealthy clan, and Gabria had hoped to make a home with them. Now she was not so sure. Two hundred years of hatred and suspicion of sorcery ran too deep in the beliefs of the people to be put aside in a few months. Gabria doubted the clans would ever completely accept magic—at least in her lifetime.

Even Lord Athlone could not help her cause. He had admitted at Gabria’s trial before the gathered chieftains that he, too, possessed the talent to wield magic—but only because that admission would help sway the council in its deliberation of her crimes. Yet he had never used sorcery before his people, and they seemed content to ignore his talent so long as he never utilized it. Gabria, on the other hand, was not only the sole survivor of a massacred clan, she had the audacity to train as a warrior and the temerity to openly display the forbidden powers of magic. She was too different to be acceptable.

There was but one creature who totally accepted Gabria for everything she was: Nara.

The woman raised her fingers to her lips and blew a piercing Piers whistle. The guards on either side of the doors ignored her, but they could not ignore the magnificent mare that neighed in response to the whistle and came galloping up the main road through the treld.

The mare was a Hunnuli, a rare, wild breed of horse that had once been the steeds of the ancient sorcerers. Like all Hunnuli, Nara was larger and more intelligent than other horses and impervious to magic.

Gabria’s sad face slowly broke into a smile as the huge black horse galloped to the hall and slid to a stop. The young woman knew every clansperson nearby was watching the beautiful mare, and her heart warmed with gratitude and joy as the Hunnuli reared before her rider in the timeless obeisance of respect and honor.

Gabria pulled herself onto Nara’s broad back.

Are we leaving? Nara asked in Gabria’s mind. The Hunnuli’s telepathic thoughts were gentle, and full of love.

“I am to go to the temple of Amara. The Khulinin want me out of sight for a few months,” Gabria replied irritably.

The mare dipped her head. It is better than death.

Gabria’s lips twisted in an ironic smile. “Yes, I guess you’re right.” She paused to secure Athlone’s bundle to her belt, then said, “I must leave by moonrise, but I would like to stop at Piers’s tent first. They did not say I had to go empty-handed.”

We’d best hurry, then. The moon has already reached the mountaintops.

Nara trotted down the path to the edge of the treld and the spot where Piers kept his shelter. The healer’s tent had been home to Gabria for the past six months. Piers had discovered her hidden identity shortly after she had joined the Khulinin, but he had kept her secret despite the danger to himself. He had offered her sanctuary, security, and friendship when she needed them most.